


Good Ideas Always Start With A Full Glass (And Just Breathing Here Can Make A Girl's Nose Bleed) (Stella Carlin)

by RockWithItWriting



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, tw addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockWithItWriting/pseuds/RockWithItWriting
Summary: requested by @cantfindmyfuckinghairbrush : Hey I love your writing, pretty please could you do me a Stella Carlin (orange is the new black) about how she crushes on the reader for a long time and does a massive gesture to ask her out? Cheers!! ❤️❤️word count: 1.4Kwarnings: addiction mention, prison mention





	Good Ideas Always Start With A Full Glass (And Just Breathing Here Can Make A Girl's Nose Bleed) (Stella Carlin)

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Stella hadn’t been outside, without a fence, in a long time. You figured that’s why she spent so much time on the balcony, sipping coffee and waiting until it was time to do some mundane chore, or to go to work.

You had never had the misfortune to end up in prison, but just by watching Stella bask in the sun you could imagine the way it felt to be free after being caged up in America’s prison system. That’s how you spent your Sunday mornings, watching Stella as she spent her morning in the sun on the balcony, the afternoon in the garden, and the evening stargazing.

If she knows you’re watching her, she doesn’t let you know.

If she’s watching you, you don’t know.

But sometimes you can catch her gaze lingering on you as you do something mundane, that all roommates do. If you’re washing dishes, she’ll drink an extra cup of coffee, lingering by the Keurig after it’s done making. Or you’d be eating ramen, reading one of your old university books, and Stella would come in early from her sunbathing or stargazing, depending on the time of the day, and sit in your shared living room. She wouldn’t do anything, just sit, and enjoy the silence.

You enjoyed it, too. Silently, you wondered how much silence she got whilst in prison but knew better than to ask. You had heard, through the mutual friend that had set you up to share an apartment with her, that something had happened and that’s why she had gotten out two years past when she was due. She doesn’t like to talk about it, and you don’t like to pry.

You like to curl up on the couch when she’s playing some mindless video game with a book, pretending not to watch her. You like watching her style her hair, watching her run lotion over her tattoos, you like her accent, and her touch, and the way her hip bumps against yours when you’re playfully cooking dinner together.

You like dreaming about her.

You like her, everything about her.

Even the way she struggles to stay clean, sometimes. Even the way she screams herself awake at night, out of night terrors and flashbacks alike. Even the way she sees someone from the old life and flinches. Even the way that she sits, panicked, watching yet another riot at yet another prison.

Even the way she opens up to you after a few too many, talking about watching the Litchfield riot from maximum security, seeing old pals and enemies when everyone is transferred out to the many max security prisons in the area.

That’s the night she asked you out for the first time, all gin and tonic and slurring.

“Do you hate me?” She had whispered, looking at you in the dark of your New York apartment, rain and thunder and lightning taking your power and heat, “For what I’ve done?” The unspoken who I’ve done lingered in the air after she was done speaking, “I mean, you’ve never…. Been involved with any of that.”

“You’re right,” You said after taking a measured silence, shifting under the blanket you and Stella were sharing, “But I don’t think I could hate you for that. I know how… I know what it’s like for immigrants in this country.”

“Even though I have it easy because I’m white.”

“Mhm, yeah, but still. And drugs are a real problem, but we can blame Reagan for that - well, at least for the coke.” You tried to avoid her eyes, “But could I hate you for what you’ve done? Impossible, Stella. You got out, you made a life for yourself. You’re making a life for yourself outside of getting high and smuggling drugs, you know?” Another measured silence and you speak once more, with an air of finality. “You’re battling your addiction instead of succumbing to it, not that relapsing isn’t okay, not like I won’t be here to help you if you do relapse, but you don’t want to. And that’s all that matters.” Firmly, you nodded at Stella, who looked like she wanted to cry.

In between a flash-bang and tornado sirens, she kissed you that night. She said she wanted to be yours, and only yours. And then she promptly fell asleep, presumably forgetting the whole night when she woke to clear skies and power in the morning.

A shame, you think frequently, you had never been as eloquent about how you feel as that night.

* * *

 

“Work sucked,” You sigh into the phone, “Thomas was up my ass all day about the infographics, even though he commissioned them two days ago, and I clearly told him it would take nearly two weeks - it’s not my fault if he doesn’t want to use Word! He hired an artist to do stupid business shit, he should know that art takes time. I’m tempted to give him shitty graphics just to prove a point.”

“You know that wouldn’t prove a point, love,” Stella sounds like she’s on speaker, probably painting in her studio or gardening, “It would just give your company a bad name.”

“You’re right.”  
  
“I’m always right.”

Your laughter mingles over the phone as the subway train you’re on rocks around a corner, “I’m just stressed from work, honestly I’m sorry you have to deal with it.”

“Nonsense, you deal with my prison shit all the time.”

“Mhm, I think that’s marginally more important than gross graphic design drama.” Somewhere, in the background of the phone call, you think you hear your fire alarm begin to go off, “Stella? What’s what?”  
  
She makes a noise that you’ve never heard, cursing under her breath, “Oh-! It’s, uh, nothing! I’ll see you at home, love, bye!” Her sentence is so rushed that you’re still processing what the hell she said when you’re getting off the subway and onto the escalators that take you to the surface. The whole walk home you’re confused, tucking your winter wear closer to your body in hopes of staying warm, and you hope that she hasn’t burnt down your apartment somehow.

Though, knowing Stella, she probably was trying to warm a mug of tea whilst gardening - cooking was never, and probably never will be, her strong suit. The thought of a fire makes you walk a little faster, forgoing the elevator to your apartment for the stairs, and when you finally arrive you press the back of your hand to the doorknob even though your fire alarm isn’t screaming from the inside anymore.

You find nothing but the charred remains of what seems to be chicken breast and pasta - the only thing that Stella truly knows how to make - and no Stella. After prying off your shoes from your swollen feet and rolling on some of your compression socks you wander to find her - and find her you do.

She’s leaning out on the balcony, a Lucky Strike between her lips and the pack in her back pocket. Slipping through the open door and watch her jump when you fish the cigarettes from her pocket. “I thought we said your Lucky Strike was over.” It’s meant to be a joke but it dies on your lips when Stella turns to you, eyes shining, face flushed. “Stella…” She says your name, reverently, before she lets her cigarette fall over the side of the balcony.

You watch it fall for just a second, until Stella is sniveling again. She’s wiping under her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking like a leaf. “I tried,” She takes a breath, “I tried to make you dinner, but I’m rubbish at doing anything… I’m… I’m useless.” She says your name like a prayer before she tries to turn away from you.

“Hey, hey, hey, no,” You grab her shoulders and force her to face you, “Don’t do this to me, Stell. Don’t shut down. Talk to me.”  
  
“I- I can’t! I can’t use my words, I’m so fucked up and I just can’t… I can’t tell you how I feel! So I was going to bust my ass to make you dinner but I only know how to make one thing and I fucking ruined it.”

She reaches for the box of smokes in your hand and you unceremoniously toss it over the balcony, face hard. Stella looks like a scolded puppy when she faces you again. “Tell me what? You haven’t ruined anything, Stella Carlin, so talk to me.” But Stella doesn’t talk to you, she runs a hand through her hair and presses a fist to her mouth before she surges toward you, kissing you once more.

It’s warm with electricity as you let yourself lean into the kiss and somewhere, in the city, lightning strikes. The rain pours down, reminding you of the first night you kissed Stella, and you smile when she pulls away.


End file.
